She Wasn't You
by Sila Ninque
Summary: Terry feels threatened by a visiting Vegas detective, but Don always knows just what to say to make it okay again. [Oneshot]


Hi, everyone. Firstly, I'd like to apologize for my long absence--between the Christmas rush at work, then the holidays, and then my grandfather passing away, I have had so little time to write. I feel deprived. Anyway, this is my apology gift to all of you--a little one-shot I wrote in my all-too-limited free time. Thank you for your support and patience. I love you all!

Disclaimer: I asked for NUMB3RS for Christmas, but I didn't get it. I didn't get the Yankees, either. -Sigh- There is no justice in the world. Therefore, I still don't own the show or the characters, and I'm still making no more money off of this than I was the last fifteen or twenty times I've written this disclaimer. Even if you sued me for it (which I really hope no one will), you wouldn't get much--there's a grand total of twenty-eight dollars in my bank account. Go me.

She Wasn't You

"Have you seen her?"

"Very nice, very nice."

"I hear she's some super-important something-or-other. A detective from Vegas or something."

And so the talk continued. As Don made his way to the third floor, he found himself keeping his eyes open for any sign of this elusive newcomer. As he stepped off the elevator, he found her.

Her beauty was breathtaking, no doubt about it. A sheet of white-blond hair framed an exquisite, angelic face, which was set with wide hazel eyes. Her smile seemed to glitter. She was very tall and slightly gangly, but it somehow only added to her beauty. She wore a shirt of blue silk over a pair of khaki slacks, appropriate for the heat wave that seemed to have settled over the LA area. A diamond tennis bracelet sparkled from her wrist and matched a dazzling pendant and pair of earrings.

Boldly, Don strode forward and held out a sun-warmed, calloused hand. "You must be Miss Carmichael."

"Cherie, please." Her voice held a slight accent, so faint that it was almost untraceable. British, he thought. She caught his hand in her small, cool one and shook it lightly.

"Nice to meet you, Cherie. I'm Don Eppes, and I'm the supervisor of the team you'll be following today. Hope we'll be able to help each other out. This investigation has me tearing my hair out by the roots."

"I agree." She cocked a hip and rested her clipboard on it. "Shall we meet your team, then?"

"That sounds fine." He motioned for her to lead the way through the cubicles to his desk, where he paged his team and sank into his chair, leaning back to wait for the appearance of his coworkers.

Cherie grinned at his comfort and settled down at the edge of his desk. "How do you like being in charge of your own unit, Agent?"

"I love it." He answered without hesitation. "Ah, here they come now." He pointed to the mini-crowd threading their way through the maze. David lead the way, Terry on his heels, and, unsurprisingly, Charlie bringing up the rear with his nose buried in a file.

"Cherie, this is David Sinclair and Terry Lake. The one with his head in the paperwork is my brother, Charlie, our consultant. Everyone, this is Cherie Carmichael, a detective from Vegas who's here to help us out with the Mettlon case, since it crosses into their jurisdiction."

"Hello. Nice to meet you all." Cherie held a hand out to David, who seemed slightly tongue-tied by her appearance, but managed to catch her hand and shake it firmly. She gave him a coy grin and moved on to greet Terry.

The blonde agent returned her grin warily, but Cherie seemed to be paying very little attention to her anyway. She shook Terry's hand briefly and moved on to Charlie with a much warmer smile than she'd given the female agent.

"Okay, why don't we just fill each other in? I'm sure we've all done this before." Her voice was soft and silky as chocolate. She perched on the corner of Don's desk, crossed her long legs daintily, and waited, pen poised above the paper on her clipboard.

Don nodded, shifted through the papers on his desktop, and pulled out his notes from the interrogation they'd conducted the day before. "Okay, let's start with this." He waved the folder to get their attention. "What information did we get from her?"

"Not much." Terry replied distractedly. She was gazing down at her interlaced fingers thoughtfully as she leaned back against the opposite corner of Don's desk, seemingly as far from Cherie as she could get. "She shut up pretty fast. I get the feeling she was either being threatened or she was on the inside."

"I know what you mean. Charlie, you got anything for us?"

"No. There's no connection between any of the victims, at least not that I can see. They had different appearances, different jobs, different lifestyles, different incomes…." He trailed off with a need-I-go-on shrug.

"Well, if you can't find it, it's safe to say that there's no connection." He sighed thoughtfully and sat up. "Here's what I want you to do. David, go down to the files office and dig up anything you can on Elaine Barton. Charlie, why don't you talk to Larry and Amita? Maybe they can give you a fresh perspective. Terry, you're with me. We're going to go see if we can pay Miss Barton a special visit. Report back here at three." He rose and began to gather his things. "Cherie, you can come with me, if you like."

She gave him one of her most gorgeous smiles and hopped off the desk, falling into step beside him as they made their way out of the building, her sheet of blonde hair swinging at her back as she walked.

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Terry tried to keep the scowl off of her face as pretty, perfect Cherie slid into the front seat of the car next to Don. She climbed into the backseat behind him, trying to put as much distance between herself and the blonde as possible. As he drove, Cherie talked, her voice as airy and musical as a flute. She asked him a number of questions that Terry was most certain were not related to the case.

Finally, she asked the one Terry had been waiting for since climbing in the car. "So, Agent Eppes, are you seeing anyone?"

Terry held her breath, waiting for his answer. As he rolled to a stop at a red light, he glanced in his rearview mirror, meeting her eyes for just an instant. "Yes."

Cherie pouted prettily. "All the good ones are." She said. Terry turned to look out the window, afraid that the detective would see the mutinous look she felt forming on her face. A moment later, the girl's coo of delight split the uncomfortable silence in the car. "You play baseball?"

"Yes. I haven't played for a long time--I'm hoping to make the team next season. For now, I just practice at the batting range."

"I love baseball." She sighed, turning Don's hat, which she had recovered from the dashboard, over and over in her hands.

"Ah, the perfect woman." Don chuckled. Terry knew it was a joke, but it stung her hard. She herself was a baseball fan, and Don knew that. Why was he making such a big deal about Cherie liking it?

The rest of the ride, Don and Cherie discussed the physics, dynamics, and good and bad points of baseball. A couple of times, Terry was asked for her opinion, always by Don, but she felt too sulky to answer with much more than a sentence or two.

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By the time they returned to the office, Terry was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. She excused herself to take her lunch break and stepped out into the oven-like heat that had blanketed Los Angeles for the last two weeks.

She opted to walk rather than take her car and set off down the deserted street. Her favorite sub shop stood just down the block and the walk would do her good. She hoped, anyway.

It did. The heat seemed to melt her frustration, and, as she pushed open the door, letting the air conditioning wash over her sweaty skin, she was able to return the clerk's bright smile.

"Agent Lake! Been a while."

"Hey, Bob. The shop's doing nicely." She dropped her weapon and purse on her favorite corner table.

"Thanks to you. You've practically kept us in business."

"How's that possible when you always insist on giving me my food for free?"

The man laughed heartily, wrinkles creasing the skin around his eyes. He was in his late fifties, a retired agent himself, who had opened Bob's Sub Shop the year after his retirement, seven years ago now, to keep his hands busy in his old age. His wife had died four years ago, leaving just himself and his teenaged daughter to run the shop. Now even his daughter had grown and moved off. He was lonesome, Terry knew, and it did her heart good to give this man's spirit a small lift. "What'll it be, Missy? Your usual?"

"Yes, please. And an iced tea, if I could."

"Comin' up." He watched her sink into her chair and gaze sorrowfully out the window. "Something wrong?"

She sighed. "Just some stuff at work."

"Hm." The older man gave her a quick glance. "Something tells me there's more to it than that. This have something to do with a man?"

"Yeah." She replied, knowing that she couldn't pull anything over on him.

Bob smiled at her. "You really love him, don't you?" He asked, sliding the sandwich and tea across the Formica to her and sinking down in the chair across from her.

"You should've been a psychologist." She said, skirting neatly around his question and taking a small bite of the wonderful chicken salad sandwich he'd prepared for her. He only smiled.

"When you've been around as long as I have, you learn to read people pretty well. Sub-makers are kind of like bartenders: people will tell you all their woes in the four minutes it takes to make their sandwich."

Terry laughed, shaking her head at the amusing shop owner. "You've certainly got a way with people."

"So I'm told. Enjoy your lunch, Agent." He rose and began to make his way stiffly back to the counter as, on the other side of the glass window, a small group of giggling teenage girls approached the shop door.

"Wait!" Terry withdrew her wallet and tried to push a five into his hand, but he only pushed it back at her.

"It's on the house. A lady as pretty as yourself should get a free lunch every now and then." His smile was warm and fatherly. It was the same excuse he always used for giving her a free lunch, but today it made her smile even wider than it usually did.

"Thanks, Bob. I needed that today."

He tossed her a nod over his shoulder as the four girls entered the shop and strolled to the counter, demanding his attention. "I know."

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Terry returned to the office, convinced that she could handle whatever Little-Miss-Vegas-Showgirl-Slash-Detective could dish out.

At least, that was what she told herself until she stepped off the elevator and saw Cherie seated atop Don's desk once more, bent over a file with him, her cascade of blonde hair pooling on the desktop.

/Oh, very professional./ Terry thought bitterly, her heat constricting painfully in her chest as she watched Don say something to the girl and gently slide her hair back over her left shoulder. She laughed, gathered her mane up, and shook it out, letting it catch the light and shimmer like sunlight on water, and dropped it down over her right shoulder. She said something back to Don, and he nodded.

Terry had seen enough. Shoulders squared and chin held high, she strode across the room and dropped her purse with a heavy thud on the corner of Don's desk, making the pair jump. "I'm back." She said with as much pleasantry as she could muster.

"So we noticed." Cherie said dryly.

Terry smiled at her, drawing a small amount of pleasure in ruining the blonde's fun.

"Hm." She said by way of acknowledgement. "Are you two getting anywhere?"

"No." Don said without glancing up from his paperwork. "It's frustrating."

One glance at Cherie's face told Terry that she was feeling the same way--a different kind of frustration, but the same emotion nonetheless. "Have you looked at anything Agent Carmichael brought?"

"She couldn't get a release on Markson's file."

"I'm going to fax it when I get the access. I'll give you my number, though, in case you need anything before then." She offered sweetly.

"Sure." Don said, handing a memo pad and a pen to her. Terry watched Cherie write down several phone numbers before tearing off the page and sliding it coyly across the desk, and she fought the childish that commanded her to snatch it away and tear it to shreds in front of the angelic detective.

Instead, she only forced the smile back onto her face and leaned down to examine the contents of the folder in front of her significant other. "Hm, Mark Hamilton. To be honest, I think he's a dead end."

"Really?" Don glanced up at her. "He's our only real connection. He confessed to being involved in the case. What makes you say that?"

She shrugged. "Gut instinct says that he's just a punk kid who wanted to get a little more attention. I still like Markson and Barton better."

"He wanted to get attention by confessing to being involved in several cases of murder one?" Cherie gave her a sardonic look. "Sounds like more 'attention' than he bargained for." She continued, the quotations in her words implied by the unimpressed rise of one perfectly-shaped eyebrow.

"You'd be surprised what some kids will do to have their names up in lights, Detective." She replied sharply.

Cherie gave her a surprised look. "I see." was all she said. Terry felt bad for snapping at her, but the feeling evaporated when, and instant later, Cherie slithered off the desk and leaned over Don's shoulder, her candy-pink lips millimeters from his ear.

He glanced up at her, then back down at the folder in front of him. He had discarded Hamilton's rap sheet for a piece of scratch paper covered in numbers, squiggles, and equations. At the bottom of the sheet was, in Charlie's chicken-scratch handwriting, a list of some sort.

"Comparisons." He said to Cherie's quizzical look. "Charlie drew them up. I'm trying to figure out where we missed something."

"Ah." Cherie said softly, stirring the hair at Don's temple. "What's this mean?" Making sure to touch his bare forearm below the rolled-up sleeves of his dress shirt as she moved, she pointed to the names at the bottom of the sheet.

Terry scowled and, crossing her arms protectively over her chest, she moved to the far wall, where pictures of their suspects were thumbtacked to the corkboard. Beneath each picture was a list of statistics, any former cases against them, connections with the victims or with each other, and each suspect's alibi.

"We have to be overlooking something." Don was saying miserably.

"We are." Terry said, still examining the wall, her eyes widening as she found the problem they were looking for. "Didn't Elaine Barton say today that she and Mitchell Markson always go on their weekend Vegas trips together?"

"Yes." Don said, checking his notes.

"Well, both of them admit to gambling in Vegas the Saturday the murders went down, but I don't remember either of them saying anything about the other."

Don spent a couple of minutes reading and thinking before nodding to her. "You're right. I think we ought to have a talk with Miss Barton and Mister Markson again. I think we've found the snag in their stories."

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"Wine, Terry?"

"Whatcha got?"

"Nothing special." He admitted, appearing in the doorway to his kitchen.

"Sure." She shrugged.

"You know," He called as he retreated for the glasses and bottle, "You did some fantastic work today. I can't believe we nailed them so cleanly."

"Well," She replied. "Once they knew we had them cornered, there wasn't much they could do but confess. I don't think Hamilton was too happy that we eliminated him, either. What I can't believe is that some people are willing to spend their lives in jail just to be known as some sort of serial-killer celebrity. What kind of life would that be?" She accepted the wine with a distracted 'thank-you' and took a long sip, watching her boyfriend lean against the doorframe to the kitchen over the rim of her glass.

"Are you okay?" Don asked, breaking the silence that had fallen over them.

"Fine. Why?"

"You certainly haven't been fine all day."

"Cherie struck a nerve with me, that's all."

"Only one?" He gave her a I'm-not-buying-this look.

"Several."

He raised an eyebrow and took a long sip of his wine.

"Hundred. Several hundred, okay? I just didn't like her. A lot of people rub me the wrong way. She was one of them."

"I noticed."

"I just didn't like her telling us how to do our jobs. Just because she handles law enforcement in Sin City doesn't mean she's a role-model cop."

"Terry, she was only trying to help. Surely you can--"

"I didn't like the way she acted around you!" She exploded softly. There, it was out.

She was surprised to see him smile. "That's what I thought." He set his wineglass on the end table and sat down on the couch next to her. "Terry, Cherie was a beautiful woman." He held a finger to her lips to ward off the sarcastic retort he saw forming there. "But I didn't want her. At all."

"Why not?" She snapped, pulling away from him. "She's the perfect woman. You said so yourself." She hated herself for sounding like a spoiled child and a jealous girlfriend, but she needed his reassurance. She needed to hear him say honestly that he wasn't interested in the beauty from Vegas. "She's smart, she's gorgeous, she's funny….oh, and she likes baseball. Almost forgot that one. See? You can't lose."

"I waited ten years for what I have right now." Tentatively, he slid an arm between her back and the couch, settling his hand on her hip. Almost against her will, she relaxed against him, curling into the familiar warmth his body offered and peering up to study his face. "Cherie was nice." He continued, dropping his forehead to press against hers, "But she wasn't you."

Her heart hammered against her ribcage, and she smiled at him. "I love you."

"I love you, too." He told her, lowering his lips to catch hers. "And you're the only one I want."

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A/N: This ficlet was inspired by a similar experience a girlfriend shared with me over Christmas break. -Another sigh- Fluff. Who can say no to fluff?

There is a place called Bob's Sub Shop here where I go to college. It's the most wonderful place to eat in the city--in fact, people stop in at gas stations and ask for "that sandwich place people are always raving about". Honest. I heard it happen once.

Though I don't know the Bob of our Bob's Sub Shop, I have always noticed that people tend to share an awful lot of life experiences with everyday people--retail clerks, sub makers, gas station attendants. It amuses me.

And before anyone says anything, YES, I know that the case file this time was NOT well-developed. I'm sure that there are enormous, gaping holes in it. That's not the point of this ficlet…and yes, I do know that "the mark of a good writer is good plot", but the plot of this one was the fluff. Imagine, if you will, that the rest of the missing stuff was taken care of off-screen. Okay?

Thanks for reading…hope you can all forgive me (a little bit) for my long absence.

-Hugs and kisses all her wonderful readers and reviewers- I love you all!

All my love

Sila


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